


Compulsion

by richestgrave (eyedler)



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyedler/pseuds/richestgrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akaba is a freak. But that’s all right, because Koutarou’s a freak too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compulsion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juin/gifts).



> Christmas gift fic. Much love and credit goes to Afuna for amazing beta work and being her immeasurably lovely self. Originally posted [here](http://richestgrave.livejournal.com/9445.html) back in 2006.

Akaba had been a small, thin kid that could easily be lost in a classroom full of children. There was absolutely nothing special about him. 

The day Akaba turned six was the day he picked up his first guitar. When he found he could play it real well, he also realized he can be very smart. In middle school, he was the gifted child. The prodigy. The geek in the classroom. 

In high school, he dyed his hair red, put contacts in his eyes and fell in love with football.

 

It was Friday afternoon. 

Right before football practice, Akaba made a quick trip to his preferred instrument store for a new set of guitar steel strings. It was supposed to be a routine visit. 

“Shipment’s run late,” the store owner told him. “It’s the first time something like this has happened in eight years. Real sorry, kid. We won’t have any of your stuff for another week.” 

Akaba took it in stride, until a salesman—evidently new—cornered him on his way out and offered him a set of copper-wound strings. To Akaba, using any other kind of string for his guitar was simply unthinkable and it was a credit to his plentiful strength of mind that the man didn’t end up being thrown out the window. 

“Not interested,” Akaba said instead, quickly sidestepping the man and making his way out. 

The end of football practice found the Bando Spiders cooling down in the locker room. Koutarou was combing his hair again and Akaba was itching to strum a note or two.

When Koutarou picked himself up from the workbench and proclaimed, “Today, Julie will finally agree to go out with me!” to applause and a chorus of well-wishing, Akaba twanged away until the noise died down, prompting Koutarou to indignantly march out of the locker room with a “Screw you, Akaba!”

True enough, as Akaba entered the club room, Koutarou was seen attempting to ask Julie out again. Akaba settled himself on a nearby bench and plucked some notes. He realized immediately that something was off and began the very delicate process of tuning.

Ten seconds later, less than three feet away, Julie told Koutarou, “Oh, what the hell, fine.” 

It was also the same time when one of Akaba’s guitar strings snapped and almost took out his eye.

 

The following Monday, Akaba came to the field with bloodshot eyes and very brown pupils.

Koutarou was the only one who had the guts to ask, “What happened?”

“Fell asleep with my contacts on.” 

Everyone found themselves shocked speechless.

Except Koutarou, who said, “That’s not very smart.” 

Akaba knew it wasn’t very smart. It was in fact, categorically stupid. He had never been so careless in his life. Ever. But then again, it had been a particularly stressful three days.

“Hey, where’s your guitar?” Koutarou offhandedly asked while combing his hair. 

“Not here,” Akaba replied stiffly.

Of course, Koutarou would be brazen enough to remind him of that. Akaba hadn’t felt complete the past few days while his guitar had been out of commission. It had been sitting in a corner of his room, stringless and unplayable. Akaba had been forced to tuck it under his bed last night, else he wouldn't have gotten any sleep again. Realizing that had he held out any longer, he would've noticed he still had his contacts on made Akaba miss his guitar even more.

It was like losing a leg. Or an arm. Or a leg _and_ an arm.

During practice, Akaba was even more off-balance. He made the wrong plays at the wrong moments and ended up on his back a few times. These were things that had never quite happened before. His teammates were worried. Koutarou was giving him weird looks. Akaba just wanted the day to be over. 

“What the fuck’s the matter with you all of a sudden?” Koutarou yelled at one point. “How the hell do you of all people screw up an off tackle? That was not smart, man. Not smart at all!” 

“Shut up!” Akaba shouted back, digging in his heels and reciting notes in his head. Useless notes. Dull notes.

The next play, he went up the middle and was brought down almost immediately. As he picked himself up, he already knew he had been running too slowly; it didn’t matter that he saw the tackle coming, everyone’s centers of gravity were practically invisible to him.

At break time, Akaba dunked his head into a bucket of ice water and thought of drowning himself. He was twenty seconds in when someone roughly grabbed his arm and _pulled_.

“Now you’re trying to kill yourself? Shit!” Koutarou roared, fisting a hand into Akaba’s jersey. He hauled Akaba over to a bench and sat both of them down. 

Akaba was feeling too sluggish to even find Koutarou’s manhandling annoying, so he turned his head and gave Koutarou a resigned glare. 

“Hey man,” Koutarou began, looking very grave and suddenly very alien to Akaba, “I always had this suspicion that you’re one of those types who suddenly go emo about something and that’s like, fine. I knew this guy back in middle school who thought it was him against the world. Jumped out a third floor window but landed in a garbage dump so he only came out with a broken arm and smelling really goddamn awful. Anyway, so I’m just saying, _I know_. And I mean, if you want to go all doom and gloom and write some tragic poetry bullshit, I’m totally down with that. Just, you’re usually smart, Akaba, and when you’re being smart, we—and I mean the whole football team—win, you get that? So you suddenly doing this depressed phase thing is really all kinds of suck. Not very smart, man. Not smart at all.”

Akaba wasn’t precisely sure what Koutarou was getting at, but it did seem like a bit of clarification was in order. “I’m not depressed. I don’t have my guitar and I can’t…” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And your contacts have made your eyes all swollen and puffy which are ew, by the way. But that’s no reason to suddenly act like the world is ending. Those plays a while ago? Those plays were _ugly_. Absolutely no rhythm in them at all.” 

“No shit. But I’m not… _rhythm_?”

Koutarou shrugged. “Just trying to speak your language, man. I’m a bit, well, _concerned_ , here. Just a bit. Tiny bit. Very small bit.” 

Akaba stared at his teammate as if he’d just grown another head. “Look, I’m not depressed. When I was six,” then he stopped. He wasn’t ready to have this kind of conversation with Koutarou. He wasn’t ready to have this kind of conversation with _anybody_. 

But Koutarou was already saying, “What? So did you have a troubled childhood? Did you…?” His eyes widened. “No shit, man. Are you okay? Really okay? It’s fine, I mean, you can talk to me, but none of that crying stuff, all right? That’s just real girly—not that…” 

The conversation was turning into high levels of bizarre and Akaba was not ready for bizarre. His guitar was _out of commission_. “You know what?” Akaba said, standing up and interrupting Koutarou mid-tirade. “Just shut up. Whatever you’re saying, it’s wrong.” 

When practice resumed, Akaba found his game. Sweeps, traps, counters. They all flowed seamlessly into place and Akaba felt completely _fine_. Like he had rediscovered the beauty of rhythm. And when Koutarou brought up his hand for a high five after a particularly impressive run, Akaba found himself meeting it halfway. 

 

In middle school, every time Akaba topped an exam, won a quiz bee or just generally did anything that people found particularly extraordinary, he would lock himself up in his room and play his guitar. To him, there was nothing quite like the high of making beautiful music after a job well done.

The first time Akaba was beat up by bullies, he ran home with a black eye and a split lip and cried himself to sleep. He woke up in the middle of the night, crawled to his guitar, and played. The following day, Akaba went to the library and read up on centers of gravity, torques and angular momentums. When the bullies cornered him again, he had them all on their backs within minutes. 

By the time Akaba entered high school, rhythm was no longer something he simply appreciated; rhythm had become an absolute necessity. And when things rattled and clashed and became absolutely unbearable, Akaba played his guitar. 

Since meeting Koutarou Sasaki, Akaba was almost always found with a guitar by his side. 

 

Akaba knew that Wednesday practice was going to be a disaster the moment he entered the club house and was met with Koutarou, standing on a stool and declaring “last night was the _best date ever_!” to wide-eyed onlookers. 

Akaba’s fingers twitched and itched and he had half a mind to skip practice. Except that Akaba never missed practice and he didn’t want to start any time soon. 

Suited up and ready, they made several draw plays and Koutarou did his usual number of practice kicks, occasionally moseying over to the benches to chat with their now constantly blushing manager. 

They had probably kissed. Held hands. Koutarou had probably walked her home. They’d be going out again, of course. Would probably be regularly dating soon.

Akaba missed a hand-off and found himself on his back. Immediately, Koutarou was beside him, looking down at him. 

“Is this another one of your…” 

“Shut up,” Akaba muttered, standing up and walking away. 

 

Akaba met Koutarou Sasaki for the first time at football tryouts. He had a most unruly shock of hair and it was inexplicably grating to Akaba how Koutarou insisted on combing it every time he had the chance.

Koutarou wasn’t a loud man, though he spoke candidly, often brashly. He was lean, gangly and used annoying phrases like “That’s smart!” all the time. He didn’t appreciate music, was ridiculously inept with women, and he _always combed his hair_. His impossibly wild, black hair. Koutarou, as far as Akaba had been concerned, was the very definition of graceless.

On the third day of football tryouts, Akaba already knew he’d make the cut. He was the fastest, the smartest, and he could bring down linemen twice his size. He had been speaking with their coach, a pushy, greasy old man, when the captain called for some place kicking practice. Akaba hadn’t been looking, but when everyone else fell silent, he knew something extraordinary had just happened. When he turned back to the field, Koutarou was standing on the 30-yard line, looking smug and combing his hair. The captain tossed Koutarou another football and said, “Do that with a drop kick and you’re in.” 

Koutarou had grinned then. It was a small grin. A confident grin. He dropped the ball, almost inelegantly, and when it bounced, he shifted, and then he _kicked_. The ball sailed high, smooth and perfect. Over the crossbar and through the uprights. Akaba thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, and when Koutarou kept doing it again, and again, and again, Akaba’s fingers twitched and itched, and he wanted to play some music.

 

That weekend, Akaba was barely coping. He was in his room, sitting on a wooden stool, ankle-deep in books and research papers. It was seven in the evening, and Koutarou and Julie were out on their second date. Akaba had the flu. 

“Fuck,” said Akaba, stretching his legs and glaring at nowhere in particular. His head was pounding, he couldn’t breathe through his nose, and his clothes clung to him in very uncomfortable ways. _I need a shower_ , he thought. 

When he got in, he set the temperature to almost scalding hot and let the water pour all over him. It made him feel slightly better. 

Akaba was a smart man. He'd already known very early on why his whole world was off kilter.

He was in love with Koutarou. Had been in love with him for a while, and it had been _all right_. Because there was always his music to think about. Because Julie never said yes. Because Akaba wasn’t going to do anything about it. Didn’t want to do anything about it, because Koutarou was brash and pompous and they were completely incompatible. Because Koutarou kept on _combing his hair_.

But now Akaba had lost his music. And now Julie had said yes. Twice. Now, Akaba couldn’t help thinking--couldn’t _distract_ himself from thinking--about Koutarou and Julie and how well-matched they were. Couldn’t ignore the wrenching pain in his chest and the twisting of his gut. 

He didn’t hear the bathroom door open and was momentarily stunned when Koutarou pulled back the shower curtain and abruptly cut off the water. 

“What the fuck…” 

Koutarou was tossing him a towel. “You’ve been in there a while. You’re as red as your freaking hair. Get dry, get dressed, and get out,” he said, before turning around and leaving Akaba alone.

Akaba quickly dried himself and put on a clean pair of sweatpants and a loose shirt. He cautiously stepped out of the bathroom and found Koutarou, sitting on the stool he had abandoned, and munching on some take-out sushi. He gestured to Akaba’s study table. “Got you some hot ramen,” he said between bites. 

Wordlessly, Akaba reached for the takeout and sank into his bed, chewing carefully while keeping a suspicious eye on Koutarou. 

When they had both eaten their fill, Akaba asked, “Why are you here?” 

Koutarou simply shrugged, tossing the takeout bags into the trash. 

“You had a date.” 

“Finished early.” 

Again, Akaba asked, “Why are you here?” 

“Shit, Akaba,” Koutarou said, exasperated. He took out his comb and began running it through his hair. “What happened to ‘thanks for the food’ or ‘real nice of you to visit’? Those sound like smart things to say to me. Look at you.” He tossed Akaba a box of tissues. “You’re sick.” 

“No I’m not,” Akaba was quick to reply, except that he erupted into a series of coughs immediately after, completely discrediting what he had just said. 

“You’re sick,” Koutarou said again, leaning back onto Akaba’s study table. “So I dropped by. That’s what friends do. They drop by when their friends are sick.” 

Akaba blew his nose for the very purpose of being able to say clearly, “We’re not friends.” 

“No, not really,” Koutarou conceded easily, combing his hair again. “But we’re teammates. And we’ve got a practice game next week. Wouldn’t want you dripping mucus all over the place.” 

“Thank you,” Akaba replied, not meaning it. “You can leave now.” 

“Plan to,” Koutarou said, but made no move to stand up. 

Akaba waited. He coughed and sneezed and waited some more. 

Finally, Koutarou spoke. “So Julie and I…” 

“Get out.” 

“Hey, I’m just trying to start a civil conversation here!” Koutarou replied, indignant. “We’ve been on the same goddamn team for almost three years. When we get out there we’re okay, but off field it’s a fucking _struggle_ just talking to each other.” 

Akaba opened his mouth to speak but Koutarou wasn’t done. “And none of that ‘opposing rhythms’ crap again. I’m sick of that bullshit.” He leaned forward on his stool with his hands on his knees and said, “I want us to be friends.” 

Akaba sighed heavily. He was feeling too much like crap to be dealing with this. “I don’t want to talk about your stupid date…” 

“Fine, great. Don’t want to talk about it either,” Koutarou quickly said, combing his hair furiously. “Let’s talk about something else. Television. I like television. And sushi. Egg. Egg’s the best…” 

“Stop talking!” Akaba found himself bellowing out. “And stop combing your fucking hair! If I don’t get to play my guitar then you don’t get to do that so stop it! Just fucking stop it.” 

Koutarou did stop, but only to stare at Akaba in shock. 

Akaba bowed his head and glared at his bedspread. His nose was clogging up again, and he wiped at it furiously. 

“So that’s it,” Koutarou says suddenly, forcing Akaba to look back up at him. Koutarou’s face was bright with comprehension. “Your guitar. It’s…your…this entire emo thing you’ve got going on is all because you don’t have your _guitar_.” 

It was Koutarou’s turn to be glared at. “You have no…” 

“No, no, no! I’m right, aren’t I?” Koutarou was saying, standing up and grinning. “You’re fucking messed up because your guitar broke. You _freak_!” 

Akaba found himself drawing up to sit on his knees and barking back, “Shut up! You can’t even last three minutes without combing your hair. If anyone’s a freak here it’s you!” 

Koutarou was undeterred. “Well then we’re both freaks.” He grinned some more and sat back on the stool. “Ha. This is good, man. This is smart.” 

“What are you…?” 

“This thing,” Koutarou answered, gesturing wildly. “We’re…our…rhythms…aren’t so opposing after all.” 

Akaba sneezed once, then cleared his throat. “Beg pardon. And you’re not allowed to say ‘rhythm’ ever again.” 

Koutarou just laughed. “We can do this, man. We can be friends!” 

“No we can’t.” 

“Yes we _can_ ,” Koutarou insisted. 

“No we can’t!” 

“Yes we can!” 

Akaba groaned. Koutarou was messing up his cool in so many ways. He didn’t think he’d ever shouted before in his life. “Look, why do you even _bother_?” 

“Because you came back!” 

“What?” 

“You came back,” Koutarou repeated, voice dropping. He looked at Akaba with grave eyes and said, “You…you had it going for you, man. That stupid scholarship. Taking it was a no-brainer. And I hated all of you for leaving. I really, really did. But it was the _intelligent_ thing to do, you know? It wasn’t fucking smart and you were all complete assholes, but _you got it going for you there_. And then you came back. You knew you couldn’t play for a long time. You knew there were so many fucking risks, and you took them and you came back and I was _fucking ecstatic_.”

Akaba found himself speechless, and when his nose itched, he was grateful for an excuse to look away. But Koutarou had stood up and was telling him, “That’s why I bother. Now you tell me. Why’d you come back?” 

There were many things Akaba could tell him. Not least of which was the simple, “It was the right thing to do.” Koutarou would’ve accepted that. Except Koutarou deserved more than that. 

“I thought you were right,” Akaba finally replied, looking up at Koutarou. He swallowed hard, fighting down a cough. “And I wanted to stay,” he said tightly.

“Okay,” Koutarou replied, nodding. He returned to his stool and pulled out his comb. 

Akaba sneezed. 

“Hey,” Koutarou said, once Akaba was done wiping his nose. “Here.” He tossed his comb over. “How about you hang onto that until you get your guitar back?” 

Akaba didn’t quite see the logic in that. 

“Misery loves company,” Koutarou said with a shrug. 

“You know you could easily get another comb.” 

“I don’t use any other comb. Do you use any other guitar?” 

“Point,” said Akaba, and then, “but it’s a _comb_.”

“Would you just stop ruining my kind gesture here?”

 

Monday practice was, surprisingly enough, _not_ spent in shared misery. Akaba was feeling much better. His body felt light, his mind was clear. When he played notes in his head, they chimed and sang. His hands weren’t itching at all.

Koutarou, meanwhile, started out very clumsy: missing a place kick, and hitting way off on several occasions. Akaba saw him reaching to run his hands through his messy hair more than a few times.

He thought turnaround was fair play. Never mind that Koutarou didn’t have any actual idea that Akaba’s previous state of wretchedness had been sorely aggravated by Koutarou’s suddenly having a love life. 

After his fourth miss, Akaba thought Koutarou deserved a break. He sat Koutarou down on the benches and said, deadpan, “So did you have a troubled childhood? Did your middle school friend’s attempt to end his life leave a deep impression…” 

“Shut up!” Koutarou hissed at him. 

“I’m just a bit, well, _concerned_ , here. Just a bit. Tiny bit. Very small bit.” 

“I said, shut up!” 

Akaba smiled very, very, slightly, “I can give you your comb back.” 

For a moment, Koutarou looked as if he was actually considering the offer, then he grinned and stood up. “Shut up,” he said again before running back into the field. 

Koutarou picked up a football and turned to Akaba. “This one’s for you.” He moved to toss the ball, but suddenly stopped and added, “You freak.” 

The ball dropped, bounced, went sailing through the uprights in a perfect arc. Koutarou whooped and preened while his other teammates applauded. Akaba felt his fingers itch. 

That afternoon, Akaba finally got his strings, fixed his guitar, and played all night long. 

 

The next day, Akaba handed Koutarou his comb back. 

“Oh, wow,” Koutarou said, grabbing it and furiously running it through his hair. He suddenly paused, mid-comb when he noticed, “Hey, you don’t have your guitar with you.” 

“Left it at home,” Akaba answered. He was in his game today: freshly dyed scarlet hair, new pair of red contacts, blue-tinted shades.

“Well then, I guess no more doom and gloom?” Koutarou asked with a grin. 

“No more,” Akaba answered. “Look, Koutarou, about you and Julie…” 

Koutarou suddenly looked away, a hint of pink painting his cheeks. “Oh, yeah. She’s…well, she’s real nice. That second date was….well,” he turned back to Akaba and smiled sheepishly, “it sucked, all right? But it wouldn’t have sucked if you weren’t fucking sick.” 

Akaba blinked. 

“You were _sick_ and were doing that depressed thing. I was worried and distracted and a guy can only have so much money. I had to buy you…” Koutarou trailed off. “Look, let’s just not talk about it.” 

“Okay,” Akaba replied. Then he said, “So are you going out again?” 

“I thought…” 

“No, I actually need to know,” Akaba patiently said. 

“Why do you need to know?” 

“Just answer the question.” 

Koutarou glowered at him, but said, “No, of course not. The last date sucked. She had a lousy time, I had a lousy time. I apologized, but no. I don’t think so. Not anytime soon. Is this humiliating enough for you?” 

Akaba nodded. “Good. That’s good.” Before Koutarou could rear up and possibly hit him the face, he quickly said, “Koutarou, we can’t be friends.” 

Koutarou’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally exclaimed, “What the fuck? Where the hell did that come from?” 

“I’m in love with you,” Akaba said simply. Of course, his heart was hammering hard in his chest and his insides were turning every which way, but Akaba had _thought this through_. And he had his guitar back. Notes smoothly transitioned in his head, fast and clean. His hands were quiet and steady. 

Koutarou stared at him in open shock for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I don’t know…what to say to that.” 

“That’s fine,” Akaba answered, then said, “Why don’t you take some time to figure it out? But you see now, we can’t be friends.” With that, he turned around and walked away. In his mind, the notes still played, but on a different frequency—sluggish, dreamlike, raw. 

 

Akaba was in the locker room, changing back into his uniform, when Koutarou suddenly darted up right next to him and told him, “I’ve been thinking.” 

Akaba looked at him and replied, “Okay.” Then he went back to changing. 

“Hey, don’t be like that.” 

Akaba paused in the act of buttoning up his shirt to look at Koutarou again. “For the past week, you’ve been dodging me every which way and giving me cautious looks. I simply assumed you didn’t want to speak with me. That’s fine, of course. I’m all about just worshipping you from afar.” 

Koutarou stared. 

“Idiot,” Akaba muttered, slamming his locker close and moving to the bench to put on his shoes. 

“Okay, I get it. That was a joke. You made a joke. Funny,” Koutarou said with a very forced, very awkward laugh. He was combing his hair again. Then he dropped right next to Akaba and said, “Okay, seriously, I was shocked, okay? And kind of angry.” He gestured wildly, looking everywhere but Akaba. “I mean, we were doing so well and then you had to go and say…that.” 

Akaba continued to nonchalantly work on putting on his shoes. Except in his head, there was much tapping and sweep-picking of notes. He decided to tie his shoe laces very slowly. See if Koutarou had a point. So what if his heart could possibly end up being thrashed all over the place? He had his _music_. He had to keep believing that it didn’t matter. Koutarou knew and Akaba didn’t regret letting him know. There had been nothing to lose. They were never actually friends.

“What I’m saying,” Koutarou began, slouching forward and finally pocketing his comb, “is that I really wanted us to be friends. Because I like you. _Not_ …like that. I mean, no, I might…look, I’m going to fucking stutter and stumble all over the place but you cut me some slack. You need to hear this, okay?” 

Akaba didn’t reply, but he decided that his shoelaces weren’t tied as properly as he would like and started to undo them. 

“Hey, Akaba, are you listening?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Akaba replied very, very casually. 

“Okay,” Koutarou said, taking a deep breath. “That time in your room? That was golden. That was fun and you better have appreciated me giving you my comb because, damn it, that was hard. For me. But I wanted to do it. Because I like you. I don’t know if I like you… _that_ way. I’ve never thought about it before. It would’ve been fucking peachy too, if I didn’t ever have to, but then you said what you said, so now I had to think about it.” He paused. “Anyway, I did think about it. And then I realized that…well, this thing. What we’ve got going. I don’t want it to end.” He stood up and crouched down right in front of Akaba. “And since we can’t be friends, I’m thinking we should try dating.” 

This time, Akaba was forced to look at Koutarou. The notes in his head came to a very abrupt stop. But his hands didn’t twitch, didn’t even tickle. “What?” 

Koutarou was blushing furiously now. “You heard what I said. You’re not a girl. I don’t have to be fucking _nice_ to you.”

“You think we should date,” Akaba said with no small amount of amazement. His head was devoid of any sound, any music, and he was _perfectly all right_. 

“Yes,” Koutarou said, sounding annoyed and still crouching on the floor, but giving no indication that he was uncomfortable there. “I think it’s smart.” 

This time Akaba couldn’t help it. He smiled. “Smart.” 

And Koutarou was suddenly smiling back. “Yeah. Smart.” 

 

For whatever occasion, Akaba would always buy Koutarou a new comb and a lot of hair gel. Koutarou would always buy Akaba new picks and a set of guitar steel strings—bronze-wound with silk filaments.

They would always hang out at Akaba’s room because Koutarou’s room was a pigsty.

Koutarou would absolutely refuse to learn how to play the guitar, and would get particularly morose whenever Akaba preferred to strum some tunes over making out with him. Except when they were both tired and sated, Koutarou would insist that Akaba play, and he would rest his head on Akaba’s thigh and let the music lull him to sleep. 

Akaba would absolutely refuse to let Koutarou mess with his hair. “I’m keeping it red. I _like_ red.” But occasionally, he would let Koutarou run his hands through it, massage his scalp.

When Akaba would pull off a perfect run, Koutarou would comb his hair. When Koutarou would make a perfect kick, Akaba would strum a tune. And they would both understand.


End file.
